Riptide

I used to bodysurf.
It was years ago, as a child.

I lived not far from white sands
    and long curling waves,
from sailboats and oil tankers
that loomed like quiet phantoms
at the liquid edge of the world.

Wearing dark blue trunks,
I would wade in through broken
waves until the brine lapped
softly against my chin.
As whitewater neared, the sea
would drop just low enough that
I could push off and join
the tumult, turned briefly
into a crude, knobby surfboard
    sliding amid the swell
until at last my trunks scooped up
    a little sand, and I found
myself beached between worlds.

Once, while waiting for just
the right wave, I bent my knees
and dropped below one not quite
    big enough, pushed up
to the higher water behind it, and
came down on absolutely nothing.

The sand was gone.

I extended one leg, toes spread
down to find it, but all I could feel
was grit rushing around my foot,
    my ankle, and shin.

There was a moment of uncertainty,
as if the wily sea were merely playing
a practical joke, then on instinct
I began to swim toward shore
where I could once again find sand
to stand on. But, I went the wrong way,
swimming forward, my body slid
back toward those distant ships, limbs
useless as seaweed on the wake.

The joke was over. Fear flashed
electric through my limbs. I sprinted,
kicking and stroking with all my might,
eyes wild and white, face pale, arms
and legs weakening until at last they
turned flaccid and ghostly as jellyfish.

Strength spent, I gasped for air
as my chin dipped into that salty,
half-lit world. And with that air
I choked and gulped at the sea.

Somewhere in the watery depths
of my soul, I began to accept this fate.
I began to accept that I now would join
and merge with the great abyss forever,
that maybe I would find my father there
in the cold blue depths, that the simple
    joys of breath were at an end.

Then, suddenly, a bright orange buoy
splashed near and I heard a voice
howl, “Grab the buoy! Grab the buoy!”

It was just out of reach, and I was still
being pulled out to sea. But I saw him,
a muscular man in glaring orange
    trunks waste deep with fear
in his eyes—he saw me, a lifeguard.
And seeing I could not reach the buoy,
with one great snap of his wrist,
whipped it out of the water back
to his hands. Like a quarterback
from heaven, he heaved back
and hurled that orange buoy as if
he meant to land it beyond the horizon.

It landed just past my head, and with
one feeble hand, I grabbed hold.
My body lifted horizontal as the rope
pulled taught, and for the first time
I could feel current rushing past
every inch of skin. My other feeble
hand took hold and the man full
of muscles reeled me in against
that all consuming tide until I flapped
and flopped onto dry sand, crying.

    I remember looking back
on that great ocean, waves weaving
docile patterns onto the shore,
        shaking,
heart hollow with fear and dread.

When the doctor came in, he asked
me to remove my sunglasses. His
face was granite. He said he wanted
to see my eyes. In that moment,
I came down on nothing and began
            to tread uncertainty.

I removed my glasses, and he began
to tell me about your procedure, tilting
his head forward as he tracked my eyes.
I toed for sand as he talked of polyps
safely removed from your watery
depths. Then he took a breath, almost
imperceptible, and said in dry, measured
tones as grit rushed past my leg,

                       “I found a malignancy.”